The Sickness
by MathieuTobias2435
Summary: 89 years after the Oblivion Crisis, Tamriel is still recovering from the shadowy scourge of Umbriel. But now, a terrible plague -- Forestbane -- spreads across the land, threatening to whipe out life on Dawn's Beauty forever. But who has unleashead it?


Foreward

It has been 89 years since the Oblivion Crisis, and 49 since the events of _The Infernal City_, and again Tamriel is threatened. A horrible plague spreads across Cyrodiil, starting in the Great Forest, before exploding into Skingrad, Kvatch, Chorrol, the Imperial City, Cheydinhal, and Bravil, killing innocents by the dozen. Only Bruma and Leyawiin remain, and the latter has become the capital of Cyrodiil for the time being, against tradition -- however the capital of the Empire has been set in Alinor, due to the Altmer resistance to disease, and belief is that they will share their immunity with the other races if forced to, a highly illogical proposition. The rest of Tamriel is safe, and soon the disease shall spread across the remaining lands in Cyrodiil -- and beyond. But no one knows how this sickness began, much less how to stop it. Except for one. Eniras, an Altmer member of Psiijic Order, who has long studied the disease that was thought to be gone forever from Tamriel, thought to have been captured in a magical jar by the ancient Altmeri god-hero Trinimac, a little known myth -- which turns out to be fact. A little problem: Trinimac's jar was the only one of it's kind, and it was lost long ago. And another minor setback: Eniras is dead.

Prologue

Kenilor Sae ran through the Great Forest, which was now a gloomy place -- though not because it was nighttime -- it's trees blackened by sickness and bending as though in pain. Yet none knew why. Except for Kenilor, who had long studied this disease, which was known as Forestbane, when translated from the ancient Altmeri name. The sickness slowly spread through the forests of the targeted land, infecting and feeding off of plants at first, and then people. A slow and painful death. He had studied this plague during his long days as a member of the Psiijic Order, where he was known as Kenilor Sae, a Mystic, a storyteller, and a researcher of diseases -- though his birth name was Eniras, Altmer mercenary and Battlemage. He had seen it all, known it all: He knew the cure for Porphyric Hemophilia, and had revealed it to a select few. He jad recently discovered a cure for Skooma addiction, and had revealed it to the once elderly, now deceased Khajiit S'drassa. He had discovered the cure for Black-Heart Blight, Serpiginous Dementia, Blood Lung, Rockjoint, Witbane, and Witless Pox. But never before had he ever encountered a disease like Forestbane, and though he had spent the last 35 years of his life attempting at a cure, the solution, or even a clue, continued to elude him.

The disease was almost unknown, and had only one historical reference in the myth of Trinimac and Lorkhan. As the story goes, the god-hero Trinimac was plotted against by zealous followers of the Dead God Lorkhan. They did so in the form of Forestbane, a disease cooked up by Lorkhan himself, and unleashed it upon the Summerset Isle. Naturally, the people turned to Trinimac for help, and he had an idea. Using a magical jar given to him by the Gods (different cersions of the myth state it to be a box), Trinimac gathered up all of the sickness, and kept the jar well hidden on order by the gods. It was said that when he was changed into Malacath, he took it with him, keeping it for safekeeping -- though some rare passages state that as Malacath he unleashed Forestbane upon his realm, which is why there is almost no plant life, save the organisms that have adapted to the disease. But after meditating on this and even speaking to Azura herself (something frowned upon by his fellow Mystics) it became quite clear that Malacath was to blame. And besides, only hours ago, Kenilor had stumbled across the cure for Forestbane, and was now on his way to tell the people of Bravil. But he knew he was being pursued. By whom, he did not know. Once he got to Bravil, he expected no help, as there would be too few people to aid him in fighting the assembled party that now trailed him. In fact, he expected the total annihilation of the city. But he knew someone that this secret would be safe with. Someone whom could not be defeated by a simpled band of barbarians. Alterii, Arch-Mage of the Mages' Guild, now resided in Bravil, attempting to aid the people. He had been able to clear Mara's Chapel of the disease, due to a miraculous blessing that must have been bestowed upon it by Mother Mara herself. That is where Kenilor was headed. That is, if he didn't die first. He continued to run, paying no mind to the panful gashes and bruises and burns that had been inflicted upon him by his captors, whom knew the cure, and had captured the wandering Mystic, and -- knowing him for what he was -- had tortured him for a cure. They had gotten nothing from him.

He slowed as the dying forest cleared, opening up to a cliff which overlooked the Niben. Below, dark water foamed as it splashed against numerous jagged rocks, which looked like teeth. Kenilor did the calculations in his head and immediately knew that if he jumped at the wrong angle -- which wouldn't be very hard -- he would be impaled, dying an agonizing but relaively quick death. But he had to jump, as soon he would found, and running along the edge of cliff was dangerous and did him no good. So he decided that he take his chances and jump. He calculated the exact required jump point and running distance for what he hoped was the safest way to jump. He ran about 20 feet back, to the edge of the forest -- the sounds of pursuit close by -- and ran as fast as he could and -- as his magnanimous and right-on calculations had predicted -- he ended up right at edge of the cliff. Tensing slightly -- which was not a good thing -- he pushed off the ground and into the air. But as he was about to fall to the waters below, a gleaming, magnificent silver arrow came from his right and hit him in the side -- six inches below the armpit -- with such force that it went straight through him.

And Kenilor Sae fell to his death below. His calculations had been wrong.

Chapter One: The Body

Alterii had never like the dead. Never. Just the of being in the same room as the deceased in any way, shape or form, had never appealed to him. But in light of the rather dark events of late, Alterii had grown used to the company of the dead and dying, willing to suffer along with them. He had served Mother Mara in all his days, despite participation in many Mages Guild afairs. Alterii always tried to serve the Nine in his actions, and after the contamination of the Imperial City with the plague, he had left to Bravil to find safety. He had found none. In all, he had brought ten mages along with him, as well as 4 Imperial Battlemages to guard the new Mages Guild headquarters. At first located at the Bravil Mages Guild Hall, the headquarters was quickly moved to the only place that Alterii believed to be safe: The Chapel of Mara. The doors were sealed, all those unaffected let in to wait it out, and Alterii prayed to the Nine to offer them protection. And even though 3 mages, Denilor, Caedus Numerius, and Bravilith had left -- and died -- Mara granted the loyal ones who remained her blessing, and the church then became the only place where the sickness could not spread, and the afflicted could be cured. None knew of the progress that Alterii and the Mages Guild had made, and so many thought Bravil to be the weakest city in Cyrodiil, except for Cheydinhal, which had simply fallen appart and was just tents and the Guilds. Alterii had studied this disease for a long time, and though the Gods could cure it, the blessing would not save all, and an absolute cure needed to be found. The Nine had told him of this in a dream, but he had only found references to the disease in ancient Aldmeri poems. In all of the relics, one phrase kept being reitterated, and in every, the beginning text had been lost. _[Text has been lost] right in front of our eyes; the cure, long lost, down below now lies._ Alterii had no clue as to what this meant, but he knew that it was somehow vitally important. A cure was desperately needed, and it was needed now, or soon all in Cyrodiil, Tamriel, and beyond would become afflicted with this horrible sickness, and life would cease to exist on the mortal plain, save the Altmer and a few other organisms. Truly the Altmer had been blessed in their immunity, but it was now time to give back to the Gods for the gifts they had given them, by doing what they would do: save all without discrimination.

It was just then that two Bravil Guards burst through the chapel doors, dragging with them a large, misshapen object. With a shock of horror, Alterii realized what it was: A body. A _dead_ body. Now, he may have been used to the dead, but he still didn't like them. The Arch-Mage approached the guards, as they gently put the body to the side of the chapel. They met Alterii in the center. Without even hesitating, they began to explain.

"We found the body down in the Niben. One of the patrols saw it fall from the cliff. Male, Altmer, about six and a half feet and the age, well..." he broke off. "The age is at least two thousand years old." Alterii's mouth dropped in shock. If he was that old, and Altmer, and male, then could it be...

"Let me see the body!" he yelled, startling the guards. "Please," he said in a softer, almost pleading voice, and they did so.

The body had an arrow lodged in the side, and the wound wasn't that old obviously, maybe three hours. But the face, that was face he would never forget. It was the face of an old friend, who had dissapeared long ago. He had once been a kind, young child in Alinor, and the two had grown up together during the Oblivion Crisis. After defeating The Beautiful, he became quite reknowned as a mercenary and Battlemage. But after Edgar Francois, ex-Arch Mage of the Mages Guild had picked Alterii over his friend, the Psijic Mystics had come to take him away. It was his freind Eniras, who was now one of the most legendary and revered Mystic in Tamriel, Kenilor Sae. Was _Kenilor Sae,_ he remined himself.

"The bastard's just lucky he missed those rocks. Not by much, but he did." said the other guard, who stood diaonally to the left of Alterii.

"Do you two... have ANY idea who this is?" Alterii growled through his teeth.

"W-well... n-no sir. I mean..." The guard decided to leave it at that, and trailed off.

"This is none other than the legendary Psijic Mystic Kenilor Sae. Do you know who that is?"

"Yeah. Isn't he that famous healer or whatever that cured all those diseases." said the other guard, who had managed to keep his cool.

"Yes. But he was also a childhood friend of mine. He was the most promising mage of his time. Even moreso than me. We were best friends up until..." Alterii cocked his head in thought. "About ten years ago, when he risked his life to save me on a dangerous mission -- wich turned out to just be a test, and Eniras knew it, so he gave me credit for everyhing. And when Edgar Francois himself gave me the rank of Arch-Mage, a Psijic Mystic appeared to take Eniras to the Isle of Arteum. And..." he shrugged. "Well, we never saw each other again."

"I'm sorry sir."

"No, no, no. You are not to blame." Alterii then bent over the body and -- carefully and with unmatched skill -- he pulled the arrow from the wound. He looked at the blood soaked point for any hint of what he searched for. He murmured a prayer of protection and slowly, gingerly, tasted the tip. His face contorted to the bitter taste of blood, but then he tasted something... Ah, yes! Just what he had expected. He stood up and took the arrow to the guards, but they were leaving, running and following a civilian... outside the chapel. He decided to follow, and only hoped that none were infected. When they arrived where the citizen had described, three, large, barbaric, Dark Elves stood, two archers and one seemingly high-rankng warrior, as the two seemed ready to die im his defense, arrows already notched and point at the chests of the two guards.

"They speak in Dunmeris, my lord. Would you like me to translate?" Asked the citizen, who was -- conveniently enough -- a Dark Elf himself. Alterii nodded his approval, and the Dunmer questioned the warrior.

"He says that he knows what you have. And that it rightfully belongs to them."

"Ask him what he's talking about."

"The Mystic. They know he's here. Is that right, my lord?" he questioned.

Alterii only nodded. The Dunmer warrior spoke again, and the man translated, "Just hand it over, and nobody gets hurt." Alterii considered that option for a moment. If he said yes, then would there be no deaths? Highly unlikely. The clans of the woods had been reknowned for their treachery and cunning ways. But he if he said no, then surely the Dunmer translator, and maybe even one of the guards, would be the casualties of that choice. _What to do, what to do._ he thought mockingly. _Oh I know!_ His lips curved into a huge grin.

"Sir?" The citizen asked.

"Tell me, what is your name?" Alterii asked him.

"Ummm... Valyn... Valyn Dralas, sir."

"Well then... Valyn Dralas," Alterii said. "You tell him... OBLIVION TAKE YOU!!!!!!!!" And with that Alterii cast a fireball at one of the archers, and a lightning bolt at the other -- who had been too stunned to attack -- and summoned a Bound Longsword to aid him in fighting the warrior. The two guards immediately sprang to Alterii's side, and before the Arch-Mage could even lay down one blow on the Dunmer, he was dead. Invigorated and aggitated, he called Valyn to return with him to the chapel. _Perhaps I can make use of him._ he thought. He walked toward the chapel with quick, heavy, angry, and determined steps, Valyn struggling to keep up.

"Clean up this mess, you two," he called to the guards behind his shoulder. "And then meet me in the chapel. We have some plans to discuss."


End file.
